


Shiny

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Courtship, Best Friends, Christmas Fluff, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Alternating, Romance For Everyone, Sherlock Doesn't Like Christmas, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:26:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2761286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Normally Sherlock despises Christmas and all it's glittery glory but this season is turning out to be surprisingly diverting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of the Box

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this fic was inspired by another Ravenwolf36 plot bunny by way of a cartoon of Sherlock and John and a Christmas tree. I can't figure out who the artist is and then I couldn't find the picture. You'll just have to use your imagination. Sorry.

* Whoever made this jumper deserves awards of some kind. *

 

Sherlock hated Christmas. He hated the snow. He hated the decorations. He hated hearing the same handful of carols being played from storefronts all over London, the cacophony ringing in his ears like tinsel haired banshees. It made him twitch when he saw people walking around wearing Santa hats, or for goodness sake, antlers with bells on them! It was ridiculous how so many people pandered to the commercialism of the season by rushing out and purchasing the latest of this and of that from everywhere, completely forgetting that they had done the exact same thing the year before. It was the same every year and Sherlock hated it.

John did not. John loved Christmas. For John Christmas was a time of fond remembrances, too many of Mrs. Hudson’s baked goods, and rich drinks heavily based on a variety of alcohols. The good doctor cheerfully greeted people on the streets, exchanging passing compliments as he sported his appalling Christmas jumpers, a collection of which grew by one every single year, a tradition that had begun when John first left to join the army. John’s mother had tearfully sent him loudest, most garish jumper she could locate. It had moving parts and lights on it as well as felt figurines all enjoying a Christmas landscape that had danced across John’s chest. He’d been in Afghanistan and had donned the jumper just long enough for a fellow officer to catch a shot of him in it. Mrs. Watson kept all of John’s Christmas jumper pictures in a large family album, a copy of which went into John’s collection, also increasing by one every single year. Sherlock had seen them all and it was eye-wrenching. Now for the full month of December John could be counted on to walk the streets brazenly covered in one of his clownish holiday jumpers, enjoying the season with every ounce of his being. Sherlock hated that.

Sherlock continued to wear what he always wore, a stylish but function suit covered by his Belstaff, his long neck securely covered by a warm and serviceable scarf. He didn’t even bother with a hat, why would he? His hair was more than adequate covering for his head so he never bothered. John only wore hats during Christmas. They were as offensive as his jumpers. He wasn’t beneath wearing antlers with bells either, he’d even gone shopping with Mrs. Hudson like that. She’d loved it. Sherlock had not. “We were at the Yard John; could you not have worn something less festive? What if we’d been attending a crime scene?”

“You picked me up from work Sherlock; don’t blame me for not having time to change into something else, not that I would. It’s December. I’m not even half-way through my collection.” Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the red flashing light of the reindeer nose that was centered on John’s chest. It was like a target! Was John mad? Any gunman would be able to take the doctor out; he was endangering both of them.

“Can’t you at least shut it off?” demanded the detective testily, “It’s distracting.”

“Oh, right.” John fumbled around and Sherlock heard a click. He heaved a sigh of relief when the nose blinked one final time and then stopped. “Better?”

“Thank you.” said Sherlock, still sounding testy and John laughed warmly, clapping Sherlock on the back familiarly. It had been shocking the first time John had done that but it was so frequent now Sherlock barely gave it any notice. It was just another in the thousand exceptions he had made in his life to accommodate John as his best friend. John was tactile, that was easy enough to observe. He liked to make a physical connection with those he was close with, though that was a select group. Sherlock occupied a corner of his mind cataloguing John’s colleagues to further distract himself from the displays of candles and bells, candy canes and men in red coats who seemed to be enjoying life a little too much. Sherlock loathed them.

“You sound hungry, we should eat.” decided John. He had begun ignoring Sherlock insistence that he didn’t need food, simply dragging the detective into a restaurant, or if they were at the flat, right to the kitchen table where he’d make Sherlock sit and stay until the meal was concluded. Sherlock refused to admit that he enjoyed how John took charge on occasion. He was working better; it was easier to concentrate on the crime when he wasn’t devoting so much of his concentration on ignoring the demands of his body. Now that he wasn’t starving himself Sherlock found everything to be much easier, including sleep. He’d never tell John but he was sure the doctor had noticed. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he hated that or not but it made him feel odd low in his belly.

John took him out for Chinese. Sherlock loved it. It was his favorite and the doctor knew it. There were garish decorations up but they were the same decorations that were up year round and Sherlock was accustomed to them, these ones were soothing and familiar, he liked it. The doctor ate up all the bits of Sherlock’s meal he didn’t care for and allowed the detective to plunder his meal for all his favorite bites, even if John liked them too. Sherlock really liked that and ended up eating more than he normally would have as a result. John liked that very much and made no protest. John laughed at their fortunes and Sherlock liked that too.

John made Sherlock laugh right after they left for home. It was entirely coincidental that they spotted Anderson across the street walking next to a woman who presumably was his wife. John scooped up a large handful of snow and pulled Sherlock into the alley. Forming it into a quick loose ball the doctor lobbed it deftly at Anderson just as the man reached the corner and both men heard a satisfying ‘pock’ sound and a startled curse as it made contact with the back of his head. Giggling, they retreated down the alley like small boys, running until they were on a different street and walking sedately. Sherlock didn’t object when John turned his jumper back on, the nose flashing merrily once again. Suddenly the decorations around them weren’t so tiresome and Sherlock walked a bit easier.

That night John baked cookies with Mrs. Hudson. He was sending them out to his mother and sister so the pair of them chatted in the kitchen making a large assortment of confections to divide up as gifts. Sherlock went to the kitchen only for tea, John refused to bring it to him, forcing Sherlock to come fetch it himself. He was obliged to eat the cookies given to him when he was there, it would have been rude not to accept, especially when Mrs. Hudson looked at him with such a hopeful expression. Sullenly Sherlock tried all of them and could find no fault with the tender, crumbly shortbreads or the chewy richness of the chocolate cookies, he could report with certainty that the ginger snaps were spicy, and because the thimbles were full of Sherlock’s favorite jams he had one of each flavor until John took them away.

“Play for us.” asked John, smiling up at Sherlock. How could the detective refuse? John had such a happy face, and he was wearing one of Mrs. Hudson’s frilly aprons, his sleeves rolled high as he cut out cookies in amusing shapes to lie on the waiting baking sheets, “I’ll order in, we can have a night in, the three of us.” Sherlock got his violin. He rather enjoyed Mrs. Hudson’s company. Her stories were always sweet and shocking at the same time. She’d had a far more colorful past than her sweet grandmotherly face would lead you to believe. YouTube videos didn’t tell the half of it. The way John would blush or gasp during her tales was nearly as entertaining as the stories themselves.

Sherlock stood in the corner of the kitchen near the window and played softly, watching their faces as they chatted back and forth, their hands shaping the cookies, rolling and cutting together as they made complicated little mouthfuls that seemed to need a multitude of steps even before reaching the point where they were ready to be baked. John paused just long enough to tease Mrs. Hudson into naming something she felt like eating and then ordering that as well as all of Sherlock’s favorite things all over again. Sherlock felt warm inside but kept playing as if nothing had happened.

By the time dinner was done the table was covered from end to end in racks of cooling cookies, not even the kitchen counter was spared. Every inch of that was covered with frosted cookies, all carefully decorated to look like Christmas trees or cartoonish and very happy figures of every sort. There was no end to the laughter between John and Mrs. Hudson as they gamely tried to keep their lines straight or how difficult it was for them to direct the shiny sprinkles where they were needed. Mrs. Hudson’s hands trembled a bit with age and John’s with the never-ending pain of his shoulder but both put aside their troubles and just made the best of it, cheering each other on as they made one wobbly face after another. Sherlock played and said nothing, marveling at their stoic bravery. He’d never come across people who were able to enjoy themselves the way John and Mrs. Hudson were able to, it almost didn’t matter what they were doing, they’d find something pleasant about it. That’s just how they saw the world and it was incredible.

The bell rang and disrupted his musings. Sherlock huffed with irritation. He was sure he had disabled it. John must have fixed it again. He really should stop doing that. How were they ever going to get any peace and quiet if they could be called upon by anyone able to make it to their doorbell? John took off his apron and went to answer without hesitation while Mrs. Hudson popped in the last tray of cookies.

It was Lestrade, accompanied by Donovan and Anderson, “Case?” asked Sherlock sharply, holding his violin at the ready. Lestrade shook his head, “Why are you here?” he lowered it. He was entirely annoyed now.

“Look at the domestic bliss,” chirped Anderson, “I guess we know which one’s the wife.” The happy smile dropped right off of John’s face and Sherlock set his violin down and strode forward. John had few real pleasures in life and tonight had been one of them. How dare Anderson disrupt that with a crass insult? Not even Sherlock who entirely loathed Christmas had done that.

“Doctor Watson is demonstrating his affection to his remaining family through these heartfelt efforts whereas you continue to shame yours by continuing your less-than-discrete affair with Sargent Donovan. You do realize there are CCTV cameras all over London? I was able to make a full length movie from the vast amount of clips of the pair of you philandering instead of working. One more disparaging word will see that video released to the public, be warned. So, since there isn’t a case and we are busy doing something important would you care to explain your presence?”

“Your heart really is two sizes two small.” snapped Donovan, who looked furious and mortified at the same time, shoving a packet of papers at him, “We need you to sign off on this paperwork. You were supposed to come down to the Yard.”

Lestrade looked like he was counting under his breath, not scowling at his subordinates as he clearly wanted to. He looked at Sherlock, “We were just on our way back to the Yard, sign them now and we’ll get out of your hair.”

Anderson looked around; the flat was as it normally was, the bison with its headphones and the skull on the mantle the featured pieces but over the years John had collected other macabre remembrances of their cases much to Sherlock’s delight. Various pieces of weaponry, or framed curios decorated their well-packed bookshelves and gave their flat a uniqueness that the detective very much enjoyed. “It’s like a mausoleum in here.” Anderson looked at John with pity, “I bet living with Sherlock during the holidays is a treat. You know he hates Christmas right? Is that why there isn’t a scrape of the season in here?”

Sherlock wasn’t taking that! John looked like his holiday spirit was souring, “John is perfectly able to decorate if he wished, I would not object in the slightest. We have been rather busy of late; I imagine he’ll get to it in time.”

Mrs. Hudson gave an excited squeal, “You’re all here anyway, I have boxes and boxes of decorations downstairs, with all of you it would only take a minute to bring them up! Sherlock go get the tool kit from my flat.” No one could say no to Mrs. Hudson and with sheepish expressions all the Yarders and John fetched up a substantial amount of bins and boxes, stacking them high in the front room. As soon as the last box was delivered Lestrade took his team and their much paid for paperwork and left.

Sherlock looked at everything with silent dismay. He had just been trying to save face for John, not wishing his friend to be soured on the one holiday that brought him real joy. John still looked a bit flat, obediently shifting things as Mrs. Hudson began to root around. Sherlock helpfully moved the coffee table so they could begin sorting through everything. Mrs. Hudson was unstoppable. Soon John and Sherlock were attaching lengths of garland to every edge Mrs. Hudson deemed appropriate, large baubles were suspended from the ceiling by Sherlock who was the only one who could reach it without a step ladder, fairy lights now illuminated their stairwell to the street as well as up to John’s room, and all the entrances were lined with festive items, right down to the picture frames which were all ringed with Mrs. Hudson’s inexhaustible supply of tiny twinkling lights.

It was extremely late in the evening by the time they were done, Mrs. Hudson finally weary and ready for her herbal soother. John walked her back to her flat, returning all the now empty bins to the basement suit before coming back to their flat to flop into his chair with a sigh of relief, “Well, that was unexpected.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock looked around; there was no part of their flat that had escaped unscathed with the very stern exception of his bedroom. Even John’s room bore a small wreath on his door, and a small musical Christmas tree ornament for his night table. It was terrible but one look at John’s face silenced any protest he might have made. John once again looked so content and so pleased with everything. He was drinking a cup of tea and beaming around, admiring the fruits of their labors. The flat gleamed, they didn’t even need to have the area lights on, the strings of holiday lights were more than enough illumination. “It’s very colorful.”

“Thanks for letting me do this Sherlock; I know you don’t like it.” John looked right at Sherlock, “I’ve never bothered before, I kind of thought you appreciated having a sanctuary away from the outside world.” Sherlock was surprised all over again at the effortless consideration John always manifested, he really was an incredibly kind and thoughtful person, far better a being that should ever deserve to having someone as unappreciative as Sherlock Holmes for a friend, “We don’t have to keep it up forever, just a day or two would be fine.”

“Nonsense John, we went through a great deal of trouble to do this, it can stay up until after the holiday. I’m not undoing all of this any time soon.” John beamed quietly into his teacup and Sherlock enjoyed the pure happiness that radiated off of the smaller man. He was so strange, so unabashed about displaying his feelings. John hid nothing, not ever. He was an open book, every thought telegraphed to the world via a series of astoundingly expressive grimaces. John could have an entire conversation without needing to say a word and it never failed to impress the detective. Maybe it wasn’t so bad having the flat decorated,  not if it made John so obviously happy and he deserved some happiness, the last few years had been rough for him. This was the first Christmas they’d be spending together in a long time and Sherlock suddenly realized he wanted it to be a good one. Perhaps he should even think about getting a present for John, that’s what friends did wasn’t it? They exchanged presents on days like Christmas? He’d look for something tomorrow. Surely there was some unusual something or other that would bring another smile to John’s face. He stayed on the sofa to think about it even after John had bid him goodnight and taken himself off to bed. He needed to think of the perfect present for his best and only friend.

Sherlock stayed up nearly all night, going to bed after dawn, only an hour before the doctor got up. Sherlock vaguely heard John moving about the flat as he did all the little things he did when Sherlock wasn’t around to distract him with cases or other projects. As he slumbered Sherlock noted a period of complete silence, then the soothing sounds of John moving about the flat once more, he even heard John tell him he was going to work. John always told him; no matter if Sherlock was asleep or awake, there was just something about John that made him feel obligated to inform Sherlock of all his doings. It was one of the characteristics that Sherlock loved most about the doctor and a part of his mind palace harvested the information and filed it away while the rest of it reorganized itself automatically, working and analyzing ceaselessly. For Sherlock it was bliss. He slept peacefully.

It was late in the afternoon when Sherlock finally rolled out of bed, yawning and stretching. He padded his way to the shower to wash up, scrubbing his teeth sleepily and generally trying to overcome the temporary lethargy that plagued him after too long a rest. When he was finally showered and shaved he went to his room to dress quickly, he needed to get out and verify some information he’d found online. He needed tea first so after slipping into some shoes he made his way out to the front of the flat and stopped cold.

There was a tree in the living room. It was set off to the side of the fireplace; John had clearly done some shifting around to make it fit but there it stood in all its naked branchy glory. It smelled nice, pitchy, green. Sherlock’s sensitive nose picked up the loamy after-scent of the forest the tree had once lived in, the mosses and lichens still clinging to the lower branches here and there. Where in the world had John gotten a tree from? He was at work now and Sherlock reached for his mobile, ready to send a querying text but stopped himself. Maybe there was something he could do to surprise the doctor instead. Entirely distracted from his chores out of the flat Sherlock hunted around 221 B instead and assembled an idea.

 

 


	2. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has just had the most surprising day he could imagine when Sherlock allowed himself to be talked into decorating for the holidays.

The next morning, feeling full of holiday cheer, John rolled out of bed. After making a lovely cup of tea in a very festive mug he boxed up a large portion of the cookies into two separate parcels, wrapped both of them within an inch of their life and tied them with string to boot. After carefully addressing each one John collected up more of the cookies to bring to work but left a generous assortment on a tiered plate he’d found at an antique shop. Sherlock had enjoyed the treats; John knew he had even if the taller man hadn’t said a single thing that wasn’t factual. John filled the top of the tier with thimbles, smiling as he placed each sweet and crumbly cookie, knowing Sherlock would eat them all first. The detective didn’t eat nearly enough so any extra nibble that John could coax into the too-thin man was nothing but good. John had plans to feed Sherlock even more over the holidays, he had a whole calendar’s worth of meals in mind and he was sure Sherlock would like each and every one of them. Pulling his boot and coat on John went to post his parcels.

On his way home John stumbled across something he hadn’t expected. A man in a van was selling Christmas trees! John couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such a thing and crowded to the back of the large lorry with other passersby and queued up for a freshly cut tree for their flat. The enterprising man sold conveniently sold stands as well and though John rolled his eyes at the cutthroat prices he paid his money and hauled the tree home. He grinned and attempted to keep a quiet as possible as he pushed the furnishings a few inches closer all over to open up a small space off the side from the fireplace. The tree looked gorgeous there and John wondered what Sherlock would think of it. They’d never once had a real tree in their home, not ever. John sighed and realized he’d have to go shopping for ornaments; the tree would remain unadorned unto tomorrow at least. He had a full day in front of him already. John had a quick meal and left for the clinic.

The hours flew by and work was over for the day. With satisfaction John walked into the flat, glad to be home at last, a bag of shopping on his arm. Today had been wonderful, exactly the kind of day he needed to enjoy. Work had been relatively pleasant; everything had gone smoothly, his spirits high as he anticipated the evening. The doctor admired all the decorations as he walked up to their flat, it made their home seem so bright and cheery, and he loved it. Sherlock was being such a good sport about it this year and John appreciated it so he’d stopped off to pick up a treat plus all the ingredients to make Sherlock a stir-fry as a thank-you. Sherlock was likely still sleeping, he’d been up all night pacing about and thinking. John smiled fondly at his friend’s eccentric habits, Sherlock would be grouchy with hunger, he’d need food and would fuss and fuss, denying it every moment right until dinner was served. John enjoyed the battle, each meal was its own small war and lately John had won more than he had lost and he was proud of that fact.

John pushed into the flat, not looking around. Instead he just called out, “Sherlock, I know you probably haven’t seen it yet but I got a tree earlier today and…” John stopped in stunned amazement. Sherlock was not only awake already but fully dressed and standing in front of the now entirely decorated tree, hands on his hips, a very satisfied expression on his face. John blinked and took a closer look at what was on display. The tree had _things_ hanging off of it, things that weren’t normal holiday decorations. It looked like Sherlock had taken whatever had caught his eye and then attached to the branches of the tree. “Is that…”

“Your gun? Yes. It’s shiny.” said Sherlock, the satisfaction on his face easily recognizable in his voice. John couldn’t believe what he was looking at. The taller man had somehow gotten a roll of police caution tape and used that instead of garland to wind about the tree. Several pairs of handcuffs pinched from Donovan, Lestrade, and most of the serious crime division twinkled among the needles of the dense branches. The skull from the mantle was somehow perched on top and it was wearing a Santa hat. Instead of twinkling lights there were small corked test-tubes containing some kind of shining liquid suspended among the knives. When John looked closer he recognized the small rectangular objects, “Are those…”

“Lestrade’s old shields, yes.”

Sherlock had decorated John’s Christmas tree with human remains, weaponry and stolen symbols of authority, “It’s brilliant!” exclaimed John and Sherlock grinned. Who said Sherlock hated Christmas? This was incredible. This was the perfect tree for them.

John always loved the way Sherlock looked when he was praised, the tall man lit up inside like a child and it never failed to brighten John inside as well, “I thought it would appeal to you.” John was still grinning as he came closer to get a better look at everything. He still couldn’t believe Sherlock had let him decorate the flat and to such an extent. Mrs. Hudson had made the most of the detective’s permission and John loved every glittery inch of it. He admired the tree again; it really was perfect and was even more special because Sherlock had done this entirely on his own with no prompting from anyone. John smiled even harder, “This is the best Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock was nearly bouncing on his toes. In many ways the tall man reminded John of a small puppy, he almost wiggled with glee whenever he received positive encouragement and it made John realize how little of that he must have gotten in his long lonely life. John vowed to change that. Sherlock was his best friend, the most amazing friend anyone could ask for. Who else had a friend that would sacrifice everything to save them and had! Sherlock was a genius, brilliant at everything he did, yet he somehow tolerated John bumbling dimly in the background, unable to understand much of what Sherlock knew without effort, but being bodyguard to someone as fantastic as Sherlock was never boring, plus Sherlock enjoyed the attention John’s blog brought them. They had a small fan club that spanned the globe and John always made sure to pass the compliments to Sherlock along so that the younger man could hear in other people’s words just how amazing he really was. If John himself was a little too effusive with praise, well, that’s just how it was between them, why should he limit himself? As far as John was concerned you couldn’t praise Sherlock enough, he was incredible.

“Your jumper is not hideous.” said Sherlock solemnly and John laughed, realizing this was as close to a compliment as he was likely to receive from Sherlock about his appearance, “At least this one doesn’t require batteries.” John’s current jumper was entirely felt characters who were well laden with presents. It was lumpy but quiet, appropriate for a day at the clinic.

“Well not all of them do, more’s the pity. I think they’re making some that sing songs too. I’ll have to look into it.” Sherlock cringed but just a little bit and John laughed fondly. “I’ll just look, maybe for next year.” The way Sherlock visibly relaxed at being given a year’s warning was amusing and John smiled up at him one more time.

John went to the kitchen. It was a mess. Sherlock had clearly rooted through all the cupboards and drawers in his search for things to put on the tree. John just smiled again and tidied up before beginning dinner, grateful that the cutlery had been spared. He was used to Sherlock’s manic phases, it was just a by-product of his brilliance and John didn’t mind. Sherlock was a singular man; the way his mind worked was astonishing. He ploughed through more information in a single day than most people managed to in a month or more. John understood how frustrating it was for Sherlock to keep himself distracted and encouraged anything the detective wanted to do that would keep him occupied. If the doctor had to spend half an hour sweeping up broken glass, well that was an easy trade compared to the beginning of their friendship when John could come home and find Sherlock as high as a kite and still bored to tears. It had been a long time since Sherlock had a relapse and John would let him break every dish in the house to keep that streak going.

So many of John’s ex-girlfriends complained about the huge portion of John’s life that was taken up with Sherlock and his many needs, they called the younger man spoiled, selfish, rude, and one after the other all of them had eventually called Sherlock a freak. John didn’t stay with them for long; he’d never stay with anyone who saw his amazing friend as anything but fantastic. If they couldn’t handle Sherlock then they couldn’t handle John, it was that simple. Sherlock was the measure against which John weighed all his relationships, never once questioning the rightness of putting his best friend before women who might have been a life-partner or mother to his child. Not a single woman had ever come close to meaning as much to John as Sherlock did. People called him a high-functioning sociopath but John knew better. He knew Sherlock could care if he was shown care first. He was gun-shy, his entire life filled with one rejection after another. If John had lived Sherlock’s life he’d be a sociopath too. John made it his life’s mission to let Sherlock be however he wanted, as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted, because nothing as wild and magnificent as Sherlock Holmes should be caged or channeled. As long as his best friend didn’t hurt himself or anyone else John was perfectly pleased to bring Sherlock all the body parts he needed from the morgue, and to allow pretty much anything at all to be stored in their fridge right next to their cheese and fresh milk.

He knew Sherlock cared about him. Of course he cared, even if he didn’t show it the way regular people did. Sherlock didn’t do anything the way anyone did but over time John had become somewhat fluent in Holmes. He understood the difference between sullen silence and the silence of anticipation when the detective apologized wordlessly for something by doing something sweet for John like killing the mold beneath the kitchen sink without needing to be asked, or the time John woke up to find his winter coat and boots had been waterproofed by means of a mysterious solution that Sherlock claimed to be testing for something completely different, or take his Christmas jumpers for instance. Sherlock absolutely loathed them but never once did he ever actually insist that John stop wearing them. He complained about them endlessly but he’d also taken the time the first year they’d met to re-wire three of them so they worked again. Maybe they weren’t the three little words he’d give anything to hear but if you listened the right way you could hear them anyway. For anyone else it wouldn’t have been enough but for John, it was plenty.

John had a plan. It wasn’t a great one but he wasn’t a genius so he worked with what he had. After everything they’d been through, after all the ups and downs, the separations and reunions John had made a decision. Their relationship had withstood all of that and had survived. It would survive what John had to say to Sherlock but that didn’t mean John needed to rush into things. He had goals, steps he planned to take. He wasn’t in a hurry; he had all the time in the world to show Sherlock what it would be like to live with John properly, the way they ought to have been living together since the beginning. Well there was nothing to be done about that, the past was the past and there was no changing it but the future, well, that was wide open wasn’t it. He knew Sherlock better than the detective realized, what with his being mysterious and complicated all the time, he didn’t realize he was as set in his ways as the pieces of a watch, and John knew exactly what made Sherlock tick.

Sherlock was a genius, no one questioned that, he was an artist at what he did with the Work and not enough people appreciated the skills that played into his deductions. John did. He watched Sherlock intently, marveling at how the ideas seemed to flow into the man, data streamed directly into his brain to be taken apart and put back together to form something brilliant. It was astounding each and every time he did it and John never got tired of having a front row seat.

Being Sherlock’s best friend was an important position, one that John didn’t take lightly. His plan, simple though it was, was to show Sherlock a good time, to have fun with him. No one ever took the time to just goof around with Sherlock and he needed it. His childhood had been filled with serious studies and social protocols, isolation and relentless practice. Sherlock was in his late thirties and it was high time the man learned what it was like to just have a laugh for no better reason than it felt good.

When they’d first met John had been saddened by how surprised Sherlock had been the first time John had invited him to join the doctor in a walk around the park, “Why?” he’d asked, sounding confused.

“Well we don’t have a case on, I’m not at work, it’s a bit warm out today, and why not? I like spending time with you, come on, you’re too pasty, let’s get out for a bit.” Sherlock’s face had born an expression of complete surprise mixed with curiosity and he’d come along with John, surreptitiously examining the doctor during the entire meander. When they made it back to Baker Street he’d looked at John as if he’d never seen him before, “You actually just wanted to walk.”

“Well yes, why, don’t you ever go for walks just to go?” John loved going for walks, he enjoyed the ever changing visual landscape the city provided and Sherlock, when he wasn’t being an arse, could be a very interesting companion. None of John’s other friends could explain the different toxins freely available in decorative vegetation all over the city, or who could tell you exactly the age and construction of the pathways they walked down, or the soil composition of the flower beds they admired. John had learned about bird wings, the decomposition rate of paper products, the social demographics of other park-goers, and the statistical probabilities involved with eating something from street vendors. It had been a very fascinating walk and after that John made sure to invite Sherlock to as many places as possible. At first Sherlock had said no more times than he said yes but as their friendship deepened Sherlock seemed to adjust to this new habit and now simply assumed John wanted him to go along unless specifically told not to come. John rarely went alone.

John was no genius but being Sherlock’s best friend was an education that never ended and John soaked all of it in, perhaps not understanding everything as fully as Sherlock would have liked but still becoming somewhat of an authority on important things like where to purchase the kinds of sheets blood washed out of easily because they tended to get hurt a lot on the job, and how to deal with all levels of government because Sherlock’s brother was creepy and aggravating as well as well connected. John didn’t care much for Mycroft but gave him his due since he had smoothed over several things in John and Sherlock’s adventures that might have made life very rough for them. John knew where to obtain hard to find chemicals for Sherlock’s experiments, and how long it took for human flesh to go off when being stored in their refrigerator. John understood how to navigate the bureaucratic nightmare that was paperwork demanded by the Yard, filling out everything with a careful hand and editing out Sherlock’s more colorful theories regarding the need for pointless note-taking. John had made friends with a chemist who got him discount prices on plasters and suture kits, using his skills over and over again to keep Sherlock’s transport more or less in one piece. All these skills and more were used and honed to a fine edge the longer they lived together and it gave John rhythm and reason in his life. He thrived on the systematic chaos.

John set his reminisces aside for now and got to work, “Okay, dinner in three-quarters of an hour. Try not to blow anything up in that time alright?”

“What are we having?” asked Sherlock from the sofa. John peeked at him. Sherlock was doing his level best to meld his molecules to it. John shook his head, how did someone that thin become so boneless? It was almost disturbing to watch Sherlock relax, he looked like he was double-jointed everywhere.

“It’s a stir-fry.” John knew Sherlock was curious but too lazy to get up to see for himself.

“What’s in it?”

“Guess.” John grinned as he rinsed off all the vegetables and set the meat out to be prepared. Pulling out his largest pan and swirling a bit of oil in it John set it aside and began to chop and slice.

“Garlic.”

“Obvious.” John set aside his small mound of garlic and reached for the next item.

“Onion.”

“Not exactly difficult.” John’s eyes almost watered by the time he had the onion chopped into tiny pieces but not quite. It was pungent and he scraped his efforts into a small waiting bowl. He cleaned up a bit then started making slow careful cuts to his next item.

“What is it?”

“Can’t you tell?” there was intent silence from the living-room. John knew you couldn’t have pulled Sherlock off the sofa with a tractor. He was firmly committed to guessing what was for dinner without being given any more information than he could discern from where he was. John grinned again.

“It smells sweet, almost earthy…carrot?”

“Well done.” John finished slicing and piled them into their own waiting bowl. He reached for the next item and wondered how Sherlock could possibly guess.

“Mushrooms.”

“How’d you know?”

“The odor of fungus is highly distinguishable. You’ve found Oyster mushrooms. The specialty market, you stopped in on the way home.” Sherlock sounded smug and pleased with himself.

“Well done you.” John was enjoying himself, carefully chopping and slicing his way through everything while Sherlock guessed. When he was done John had several small bowls of prepared vegetables arrayed in front of him. He sliced up the chicken because Sherlock wouldn’t eat a stir-fry with any other kind of meat, turned on his pan at long last and began.

By the time the noodles were ready and John was deftly tossing everything together in the pan to serve Sherlock had oozed over from the sofa to his seat at the table attempting to look bored but he was clearly ravenous. John hid a smirk and put a tiny bit more on Sherlock’s plate than he normally did. Handing over two freshly brewed cups of aromatic tea John set dinner out. Sherlock began to eat without preamble, saying nothing and seeming lost in thought. John noted how Sherlock was actually savoring each bite carefully and hid another gleeful smile. The detective was enjoying dinner and when John saw his completely empty plate he felt a surge of triumph. Today was officially a win.

It got even better when they were cleaning up afterward. Sherlock put away the left-overs and stole several more mouthfuls before wrapping it all up to finish cooling. He also ate up all the thimble cookies as well, leaving not a single one behind. John washed the dishes and felt extremely proud of himself. The second the kitchen was clean Sherlock reclaimed his domain by spreading out a long and complex experiment over the table and becoming lost in something that seemed to involve the melting point of various materials. John didn’t mind. Sherlock was fed, safe, and entertained. It was absolute perfection.

Later that night when John finally took himself to bed he was still feeling exultant over the day. It had just been fantastic, all of the little things that had occurred today making it one of the most pleasant days he’d enjoyed in a long time. Sherlock hadn’t done anything aggravating at all and was still buzzing happily around the kitchen, once again in his pajamas and robe, carelessly wearing John’s slippers because he never bothered to look at who’s pair was who’s when he put them on. John didn’t mind. He rather liked the idea of Sherlock pacing around in his old slippers. He had another plan for tomorrow, and for the day after that. He had plans that led all the way up to his goal so with another small smile John let himself drift off as he listened to Sherlock clatter around noisily, his mind occupied with his experiments, online research, talking to the skull which was on the tree, and just being Sherlock. Much comforted by the familiar racket John slept heavily.


	3. A Little Brighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The holidays are here but both John and Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it more than they normally do.

Sherlock experimented late into the night. He had data to gather and he didn’t want to make any mistakes. Still, it was still in the early hours of the morning when he at long last put his research away, cleaning up as much as he could and clearing the kitchen counter and stove with extra thoroughness. John would need to make breakfast in the morning and he wouldn’t thank Sherlock for leaving questionable stains behind. He had some ideas he needed to explore on the morrow as well, his mind making a list of places to go. John was working, Sherlock had checked their calendar. At first having a paper calendar seemed like a waste of space and effort but now Sherlock quite liked seeing John’s neat scrawl with pointed notes clearly directed toward Sherlock.

When he woke he found that John had helpfully left out an easily reheated breakfast, his teabag already waiting in his cup, the kettle on the stove waiting to be boiled. Sherlock felt warm when he saw this. John’s little food efforts had not gone unnoticed. John’s skills really had improved over time and now all the dishes he made seemed to have a signature flavor to them, something Sherlock couldn’t identify and it was rather thrilling. He knew John had experimented heavily in flavors while he travelled in the army, his palate was surprising complex and varied. It was entirely conceivable that John had learned some kind of special technique for blending or preparing his seasonings, or even finding a purveyor of spices who would be more than willing to make a preparation especially for the doctor. Whatever it was Sherlock enjoyed chasing the mystery of it. The guessing game with ingredients was growing more entertaining as his nose grew better at identifying things. He used to need to remain in the room but had slowly trained himself to identify things from a greater distance. It was a useful diversion, one that John enjoyed doing with him.

Sherlock looked at the remains of breakfast, dumping his dirty dishes in the sink for John to deal with later. He thought about all his plans and without wasting any more time he went to dress himself to go out. There were a number of locations he needed to get to and it would take up most of the day. With no time to waste he knotted his scarf under his chin and swept out of the building. Deftly navigating London Sherlock got to his locations easily. Still it took three stops before he found what he was looking for, paying in cash because he wanted it to be a surprise and Mycroft loved to spoil.

Item safely bagged Sherlock continued on his way. He came across an idea, looking ruefully at the bag in his hand…two items wasn’t too much was it? He invested in the second item, making himself some notes on his mobile and sending a text to Mrs. Hudson. Once that was arranged Sherlock went on his way. Four more stops garnered nothing new but he was satisfied that he’d worked his way through his list. He wasn’t sure what to do with the first item but brought it home anyway.

Sherlock stopped at Mrs. Hudson’s before going upstairs. She clapped and giggled at the second item, and scheduled some time the next afternoon with the detective to deal with it. Kissing her on the cheek Sherlock went upstairs, “John, I got something in error, you may as well have it.”

John was in the kitchen putting away the day’s shopping, “It better not be another trepanning tool, I’ve told you again and again modern doctors don’t really use rusted iron equipment for out-of-date procedures.”

“Well, bits of it are steel.” said Sherlock and pushed the bag toward John who was wearing a jumper with small glittery ornaments all over the front of it that were attached to the tree knitted right into it. John put the milk in the fridge before coming to the table to open the bag, “You might find it useful at least.”

“These are fantastic!” John lifted out a small wooden rack. On it were four small samurai swords, the topmost sword being the shortest. The longest knife was less than two feet across, all broad and flat, and when John unwisely tested the longest blade with his thumb, razor sharp.

“They’re chef’s knives. I got them then I changed my mind but they were on sale so I can’t return them. You may as well use them. Mrs. Hudson would do herself an injury and Mycroft obviously doesn’t need help being fed.”

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s continual poking at his brother’s weight. Mycroft was only heavy when compared to Sherlock, otherwise he was perfectly normal in every regard. John secretly felt it was Sherlock’s only method of dealing with the fact that Mycroft was taller and that would never change so Sherlock lashed out spitefully in other ways. It was childish but John had a sister and some of their decades long fights weren’t exactly noble. Siblings fought for complex reasons, eventually you lost track of why you were arguing and just kept going out of sheer familial stubbornness like the way Harry insisted on calling him _Johnny_ even though he absolutely loathed it. Still, he had ninja kitchen knives now and therefore very serious distractions to deal with, “Well I’m going to make dinner with them.”

“Do whatever you like John.” said Sherlock sounding bored. “I need to think.”

“I’ll come get you when the food is ready.” John was completely distracted with the new knives, pulling them out one at a time before beginning to root through the fridge.

 

Sherlock went to the sofa and made himself comfortable. He had to smile when he heard an almost inaudible _hai-yah_ come from the kitchen followed by an also nearly inaudible _aw yeah_ before John fell silent. “What are you making?”

“Guess.”

So, John wasn’t even going to tell him what kind of dish he was making, an all-out challenge then, very well. Sherlock settled himself in and focused on everything he could hear and smell from the kitchen. John was shuffling back and forth. He was wearing Sherlock’s slippers, Sherlock always stole John’s deliberately because the soldier’s feet got cold easily and Sherlock’s were better. Sherlock didn’t mind the cold, it had never troubled him but John had never really adjusted from the desert heats he’d loved so much and missed greatly. He wrapped himself up in multiple layers of clothing to shield himself from the never-ending damp of London. Sherlock mused about that for a moment before he realized he hadn’t been paying attention. John was already cutting the vegetables. John was predictable in some ways; he always began with the most aromatic item, using a base set of flavors to build off of, “Garlic.”

“I nearly always use garlic.” yes he did and Sherlock loved that. John worked it into nearly every savory dish he made.

There was something sweet then, John wasn’t cutting anything. It was fruity and familiar, “Applesauce?”

“Spot on!” said John, “Try this one.”

There was a crinkling sound and a dry rustling followed by another sweet but distinctive smell, “Shredded coconut.”

“Well done you!” said John.

The sounds of cutting resumed, crisp neat slices with the occasional scrape as John cleared something away. It took a moment before Sherlock had it, “Sweet peppers, yellow.”

“Orange but good try.” well he’d gotten the pepper part right anyway and how many people could tell the difference between yellow and orange peppers by smell anyway. Sherlock was satisfied with his deduction. There was a dry dusty smell in the air now, John was running the tap and there was a wet shushing sound as he swirled something under the water, “Rice?”

“You are earning yourself extra-pudding tonight!” exclaimed John. Sherlock wiggled in his seat because he knew John actually would give him extra pudding even if Sherlock didn’t finish his entire meal. John clattered around now, rinsing off what Sherlock had determined was a whole chicken separated into pieces, bone in. John didn’t normally buy so much at once but when Sherlock heard the roasting pan being dragged out he understood. There were no other pots or pans removed and he listened as John laid everything together in order before putting the lid back on and popping it into the oven. After a round of cleaning-up and tea making John joined Sherlock, handing him a steaming hot cup that had a small plate of biscuits on top, “That’ll take a while, you should have a snack.”

“We can watch a movie,” suggested Sherlock, “You have that whole series you’ve been on about forever and you haven’t even taken the plastic off of it yet.”

“That is one of the best ideas you’ve ever had, you’re in for a treat.” John bustled. He literally bustled. He went to their telly and dug out a small boxed set of movies, stripping the packaging off of it neatly and nearly humming with busyness as he opened each case and got rid of all the plastic. He shut off all the lamps and turned on all the lights they had strung so the room was gently lit. Reverently John opened the first one and said, “You are going to absolutely love this.”

John plunked himself down on the sofa, unceremoniously scrunching Sherlock’s legs up by folding them nearly to his chest to make himself a spot. Since John then let Sherlock flop his legs back down to drape over both John and the armrest Sherlock contented himself with a small grumble about being inconvenienced, “I pay half the rent on this sofa, I’m getting my money’s worth.” retorted John and Sherlock sniffed. This was entirely agreeable so he wiggled around until he could see the telly with ease and smiled when as John soaked in all of Sherlock’s radiant body heat, sighing contentedly as he sank into the cushions and pressed play.

The show progressed with much “What’s going on now” from Sherlock followed by a great deal of “Just watch!” from John. The show didn’t interest Sherlock at all at first but then it became intriguing. By the time the first episode was done John was vindicated. Sherlock absolutely loved _Warehouse 13_ even if it did take place in America. There were five entire seasons of it at their disposal. John grinned at Sherlock and went to make more tea before they started episode two. They were startled half-way through when the oven-timer went off. John bustled again and went to serve up dinner, telling Sherlock to just make a spot on their coffee table for their plates and cups so Sherlock hurriedly relocated items back to their proper locations, even wiping it down so it wasn’t dusty and gritty.

It was a kind of stew, everything baked together until it had become soft and tender, the flavors so simple and complex at the same time that Sherlock found he’d emptied his entire bowl while it was still scalding hot. With a small laugh John paused the episode to go get Sherlock a second helping. He savored it. He still managed to eat all his pudding too, a tart fruit salad with two massive scoops of vanilla ice-cream on it. Pleasantly full he spent the rest of the evening ensconced on the sofa with John, pausing the show occasionally to argue about science and history before resuming play to see what actually happened.

That night was a precursor to all the other nights that followed. Sherlock worked with the Yard occasionally and John was at the clinic part time, every day wearing another nearly offensively loud holiday jumper. In between they watched more episodes or went shopping for interesting dinner options that would provide John with new and interesting ways to test his new blades. Sherlock found John’s garish jumpers to be very useful. As long as Sherlock got a good look at the doctor before they left the flat he was always able to find John anywhere in a crowd.  While out John got them to stop and participate in all sorts of holiday activities from ornament making to skating though that hadn’t worked out so well, “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t skate?” complained Sherlock as John wobbled dangerously around while clinging to Sherlock’s arm.

“Well ice-rinks are hard to come by in the desert and before that I guess I never really had an opportunity. Why is it that you look like you used to be a figure skater?” John’s feet tried to go their separate ways but Sherlock’s arm snaked around his best friend and rescued his dignity.

After two nearly fatal rounds of the rink they returned their rented skates and called it a day. John was rubbing his behind where he’d bruised himself. He took a long hot bath when they got back and angrily refused to let Sherlock check the bruise for scrapes. Sherlock didn’t understand. If he’d been bruised that badly John wouldn’t rest until Sherlock had been checked over, rubbed with some kind of ointment, and bandaged until he could barely move. Sherlock managed to dump a large amount of soothing bath-salts he’d gotten from Mycroft into the tub before John manhandled him out of the room. John’s nearly broken bottom would make cooking dinner awkward so Sherlock ordered take-away, indulging in another of John’s little favorites.

John came out of the tub eventually, dressed in soft pajamas and firmly tied into his robe, Sherlock’s slippers on his feet. A huge grin spread across his face, “Pizza!”

“Especially made for you by Angelo himself.” said Sherlock. Angelo didn’t even make pizza but he made it for them when Sherlock asked, using his own family recipe for the crust. He kept it on hand just in case of calls like tonight though normally John did the calling, “I had him make pepperoni, that’s the one you prefer isn’t it?”

It was. John groaned almost indecently as he bit into the crusty crunchy savory saucy goodness that was Angelo’s pizza. Sherlock had to admit that it was sinfully good for something so ordinary and decided to make Pizza Night a regular thing for them. Angelo offered to make one of his more creative ones but Sherlock decided that John probably wasn’t ready for a curry-banana-shrimp pizza. Maybe next time.

Mrs. Hudson dropped off presents one morning, and kissed them both on the cheek, handing Sherlock a plate of assorted baked treats, “I’m off to my sister! John you should get your turkey in the oven soon shouldn’t you?”

John and Sherlock looked at each other after she left and both their heads swivelled over to take in John’s calendar. It was Christmas Eve and they hadn’t gotten anything organized for their meal. How had they forgotten something that huge? “I’ll get my coat.”

Sherlock stuffed his feet into boots and helped John on with his coat, nearly pushing the smaller man down the stairs to hurry to Tesco’s. They looked everywhere badgered a much harassed butcher but there were no turkeys anywhere. They went to another grocery store. Their turkeys were sold out too and even their Christmas hams were gone. John looked grim so Sherlock pulled out his mobile. He wasn’t letting something as small as poultry make John Watson frown, “Anthea. We need a turkey, uncooked and ready to stuff delivered to Baker Street as soon as possible. We’re making one more stop and we’ll be on our way back.” Sherlock ended the call without waiting for Anthea’s reply. A second later it rang, “Mycroft, all we need is one turkey, surely you can manage that?” he listened for a moment, “Oh fine, I’ll call you instead of just cutting out the middle-man and going directly to Anthea who will do what I ask anyway. Merry Christmas brother.” Mycroft was probably off at another of his boring parties surrounded by other uptight and uninteresting people. Sherlock was having a much better dinner because he was with John.

They went back to Tesco and Sherlock checked his mobile often to make sure they got all the details just right. They had a huge cart full of food by the time they raced around the store grabbing what they could or an alternative if their ingredient was sold out. It took both of them to make it back to Baker Street, arms loaded with supplies and both men grinning with anticipation. Anthea was waiting for them and she didn’t look amused but she still handed over very heavy bag with a large turkey in it. Sherlock was glad John had forced them to upgrade their stove into the largest size that would fit in their flat. They would need the capacious oven for this beast.

The turkey was frozen solid. It was going to take forever to defrost. John was entirely undaunted, “We can make all the sides tonight and then the turkey can cook for dinner tomorrow, we’ll be fine. Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and helped John prepare their meal. Under his strict orders not to chop his own fingers off John gave him the second longest knife and supervised Sherlock as he assembled everything they needed to make stuffing as well as several different vegetable dishes. John decided to bake some of them immediately; they would reheat beautifully on the morrow so he busied himself with that while Sherlock kept his digits on his hands. Since they were cooking anyway and couldn’t expect a hot turkey meal for well over 24 hours Sherlock also helped John make them an impromptu Christmas Eve meal.

They hadn’t thought about that when they’d shopped and it was too late to go out now so with the ground beef John did have Sherlock made a meat-loaf but he shaped it to look like a hedgehog, laying in slivers of bread stolen from the stuffing ingredients to give it a distinctive spiny coat. John snorted with laughter when he saw it and stuck two olive halves on it to make eyes and a bit of onion for the mouth. They added it to their collection of other roasting pans of food and began to clean up. John wrapped up everything that needed to cook the next day and put everything away in the fridge while Sherlock washed the dishes and scraped the debris off the table.

Dinner was eaten yet again in front of the telly, both of them with their feet up on the coffee table as they watched another episode of Warehouse 13 and sipped wine. They paused to clean up and get more wine plus some cheese and crackers before settling back down side by side to continue with the adventure. The lights twinkled all around them and glass after glass was refilled until both of them were giggling like boys once more and teasing each other. They stopped again and again to deal with everything they’d cooked for tomorrow’s meal, having more drinks until they were a tiny bit wobbly and needed to have a sit-down. They slumped together as John poured the last of their second (or was it third?) bottle of wine evenly between their glasses, both of them tossing it back like it was water before dissolving into giggles and trying to remember the plot of the latest installment before giving up and starting the episode all over again.

Sherlock felt his eyes grow heavy and he was so comfortable because John was warm and pressed right to his side. He wasn’t sure when that had happened but it was nice. John smelled good, like cookies and gun-oil, why was the combination so delicious? Sherlock leaned over and smelled John’s hair, provoking a sleepy giggle from the doctor. This was a much better position, he was so incredibly comfortable. Sherlock closed his eyes just for a moment because John’s snore was adorable and he wanted to remember the sound of it without other distractions. The clock was just reaching midnight when with a happy and contented smile Sherlock fell asleep draped over an equally unconscious John whose smile was exactly the same.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * the author has personally eaten curry-banana-shrimp pizza and much like eye-ball tea it’s surprisingly okay.
> 
>  
> 
> The inspiration for John's knives can be seen here:  
> http://geekologie.com/2013/08/prepare-to-die-bagel-samurai-sword-kitch.php


	4. Christmas Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys of Baker Street have enjoyed an uncommonly pleasant time this season but now the big day is here. Who knows what surprises are in store for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know I missed Christmas entirely. I grovel, I sincerely grovel with offered apologies. I'm still writing this because I had an idea and I can't stop till it's done so...yeah, sorry. Let's all pretend that its actually before Christmas and not after Christmas *attempts to Timelord*

It was really hot for a December morning. John’s eyes peeled open, his head throbbing just a bit. He couldn’t quite see yet but he remembered they’d had far too much wine the night before. Thank goodness he’d made it to bed where he was warm. Nothing bothered his bad shoulder more than a foolish combination like too much drink and a deep chill. Right now his shoulder was toasty warm, just like the rest of John. He had something luxuriantly heavy on him, something that covered him end to end and was keeping John in a trance-like state as his body defied his brain and refused to wake up entirely. John’s eyes lost the battle first and focussed on the scene in front of him.

The coffee table, well nothing alarming there, clearly he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. John smiled. Last night had been wonderful, absolutely perfect. Sherlock had been entirely charming for ages now and John was starry-eyed over it all. When his body was a little more awake he’d see about making something nice for Sherlock to eat for breakfast. Idly John wondered where Sherlock was, a question that was answered when the blanket on his shoulder shifted of its own accord and suddenly Sherlock was breathing soft and evenly on the back of John’s neck. Sherlock was laying on John!

John was completely awake now. His head was indeed throbbing but not enough to mask the fact that John was covered in six feet of a consulting detective whose warm breath was actually very soothing on the nape of John’s neck, relaxing the tense throbbing, and at the same time making John’s heart race. Sherlock’s body was entirely boneless, their bodies made perfect contact all the way down, including John’s feet which Sherlock had impossibly covered with his own. Sherlock’s arms were folded up on either side of John, his fingers cupping John’s shoulders. John had no trouble breathing, Sherlock’s weight seemed negligible but now John couldn’t stop focussing on the fact that Sherlock’s hips were fitted right beneath his buttocks so that John’s bum was pressed to Sherlock’s abdomen.

Sherlock was waking up, his breath quickening, his limbs twitching as his transport came back online. Suddenly Sherlock’s arms seemed to move of their own accord, snaking beneath John and hugging him close, Sherlock’s face pressing tight to the curve of John’s neck. Even Sherlock’s legs pressed John’s between them so when the detective rolled to his side with his back to the sofa he took John with him, now neatly spooned to Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock kept sleeping for several seconds more. John didn’t know what to do. Sherlock was holding him like a vice and if he moved his hand John wasn’t entirely positive what he’d be able to reach but from this position it was going to be Sherlock’s hip or his bum and John wasn’t sure he was mentally prepared to touch either of those places when he was hung-over. Luckily for him Sherlock woke up. His whole body tensed and his voice was thick and almost slurred, “John?”

“I think we shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine.” said John and felt Sherlock nod, “If you let go I can get up. I really need the loo.”

A startled inhalation let John know Sherlock didn’t realize he’d been clinging to John like a plush toy. He released him so John rolled off the sofa and staggered to the bathroom. After that he let Sherlock take his turn while he got his robe and a fresh towel. He needed a shower and ended up having to wait for Sherlock who of course used up most of the hot water. John showered as fast as he could and went to the kitchen where Sherlock was brewing coffee and reading a cookbook he’d clearly gotten from Mrs. Hudson. John glanced at the page. It was a guide on how to assemble stuffing so John left Sherlock to it, accepting his mug of coffee when it was ready and in no way mentioning the fact that they’d woken up on the sofa together.

Sherlock brought his laptop in and was avidly watching cooking shows while John made breakfast, eyeing John over and over again until John wondered if Sherlock was evaluating his cooking technique. It made him a bit self-conscious for a second before he remembered that there was a time when Sherlock couldn’t even slice a tomato without supervision and relaxed. Everything Sherlock knew about cooking he’d learned from John. When they’d met Sherlock’s idea of cooking was making toast, he used the microwave for experiments only, and until John had patiently trained him out of the habit, the oven had been a makeshift storage area for borrowed equipment so Sherlock wouldn’t get it mixed up with the things he actually owned. John had cleared a cupboard for that and reclaimed the kitchen one fiercely contended inch at a time. Sherlock startled him by standing up straight with a small sharp breath, “ _Oh_! Merry Christmas John!” Sherlock hustled out of the kitchen before John could return the salutation. He was still a bit muzzy from his hang-over.

Sherlock came back out of his room with a medium sized gift bag in red. He took the spatula out of John’s hand and dumped the bag into John’s arms instead, standing by the stove and making a show of stirring the hash while indicating with his free hand that John should look inside. John was amazed. Sherlock had gotten him a gift? John pulled out the tissue paper on top and saw a pile of material inside. He pulled it out. It looked like one of Sherlock’s old lab coats, stains and all, but it had been transformed into a sort of apron complete with buttons and pockets and treated with some kind of compound that was flexible and somewhat shiny. The lapels had been altered to go around John’s neck and the sides of it buttoned together so when John had it on his front was entirely covered, “Mrs. Hudson helped me put it together but I made the solution that’s on it. It’s fireproof, nothing will stick to it, and it’s heat resistant. When you cook you won’t scorch your clothes and if you do manage to soil it somehow you can just wash it with everything else.” Sherlock looked a bit bashful for a second but said, “I used the lab coat I had at Uni. Apart from our time here at Baker Street doing my studies there was the best time I’d ever had.”

John was so touched. This was just brilliant. It fit perfectly; it was practical and sentimental at the same time. Sherlock had gone through a lot of effort to make him this very simple but incredibly wonderful gift! “I really love it. I’m going to use it all the time.” he promised. He would. This was the coolest apron he’d ever seen. He’d always wanted to use one but all the protective clothing in that regard seemed to be either for professionals or for people who endangered themselves in the kitchen by the amount of frills that seemed to come with every design. Mrs. Hudson’s were so frilly she had to store them rolled up. There was no way to fold them. This was just what John needed, “Thanks Sherlock!” without thinking John reached over and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug and was surprised when Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him instantly, Sherlock’s head dropping on top of John’s for just a moment before they released one another, “I’d better take over again.”

“Well you are the chef in charge.” teased Sherlock, presenting John with his spatula. He couldn’t help but smile all the rest of the morning. Breakfast was fun, much interrupted by Sherlock pointing out cooking tips that were much like the procedures he used in the lab, thus providing Sherlock with the skills he said outstripped John’s in the kitchen so that technically Sherlock was the better cook. John looked skeptically at him until Sherlock subsided with the words, “Well only technically. In practicality we both know it’s you.” John had to laugh; Sherlock’s humor had always tickled him. He had no idea why people thought Sherlock wasn’t funny; he made John laugh all the time!

Sherlock was having a good time, John could tell. He fussed around the kitchen laying everything out, checking his online videos and putting together little checklists before finally getting around to the actual work of chopping and slicing. John understood that Sherlock had a mental process for getting things done, this was who he was, and if beginning a database so he could accurately track ratios and variables involved in cooking a turkey dinner then John was pleased to stand back and hit the enter key whenever Sherlock’s hands were otherwise engaged. Soon both of them were deeply engrossed in the systematic and detailed production of the most elegant Christmas feast they could devise on short notice with Sherlock’s bank card and unlimited online access. They cooked.

Several hours in John realized they might have gotten carried away. It was very easy to look at recipes online and throw the ingredients into the cart. Even when they didn’t have exactly what was required it still meant that they now had a rather overwhelming amount of food on hand. Not counting the bird they were in the middle of cooking enough food to feed a small army. What were they going to do with it all?

Sherlock called Mrs. Hudson and asked to use her oven as well as some of her platters and other kitchen-ware. Mrs. Hudson’s delighted coo of permission was clearly audible to John. She’d offered Sherlock anything he liked so now he was baking cupcakes, he’d even colored the batter so some were green and some were red. He was going to match the icing. After Sherlock baked his he made a batch of pressed sugar cookies for good measure.  After toying with things for a while Sherlock then got John to cover each cookie in the colored sugar he’d ground with a mortar and pestle before putting them in the oven. When they came out they had little shining stars and other shapes in jeweled colors. John stood back, “We need to call some people in to help eat all of this.”

Sherlock considered, “Everyone is with their families tonight. Who do we know that would be alone on Christmas?” they thought about it for only a moment and then John was so grateful he had his best friend by his side, “Lestrade is probably at the Yard. His last divorce went through in September. I don’t think he’s with anyone.”

John called. Lestrade had indeed been doing paperwork even though he was supposed to be off the clock. “Please, do us this favor. We’ve got so much; we don’t even have space to store it. Come on, if you need to just bring the paperwork with you.” Lestrade grumbled a bit but grudgingly agreed to pop by in an hour or so. John felt satisfied, “Well that’s one.”

Sherlock looked down at his feet for a moment then picked up his phone. Punching a number in swiftly Sherlock said, “Molly? John and I were hoping you could give us a hand eating up our Christmas dinner, only it’s the first one we’ve ever made and we’ve made rather too much. We’re trying to find people to come by.” Sherlock seemed to be listening carefully to Molly, his eyes intent, “Well then bring him. We won’t mind. John will be very pleased in fact.” A moment of listening and Sherlock said farewell, “Doctor Hooper will be here in around an hour as well and she’s bringing her cat. She doesn’t want Toby alone on Christmas.”

Well John loved cats provided he didn’t have to actually look after one. A furry visitor would be a nice change and he knew Molly had hers trained to a treat. She did nothing else with her spare time, what little spare time she had. John realized she was another one that had probably been spending her day off at work. He thought of one other person that was likely working on Christmas and even though Sherlock wouldn’t thank him John picked up his phone and called Mycroft, “How can I help you Doctor Watson?” Mycroft sounded busy.

“By putting down whatever you’re doing, grabbing Anthea and coming to Baker Street for dinner. We’ve got an unplanned dinner party starting in about an hour. Stop working; come be with humans you know for a minute.” John paused then added slyly, “Lestrade will be there.”

So many people thought Anthea and Mycroft were a couple and they did everything they could to encourage that opinion. Anthea was a bodyguard and being close to the body she guarded was easiest when everyone assumed she was his lover. She wasn’t. As far as John could determine Anthea was as beautiful and as interested in sex as Sherlock was. What a waste. John realized his eyes were trailing toward Sherlock’s bedroom and the long-time curiosity John had secretly fostered about things they could do in there together. He focused on Mycroft’s pointed silence before the man answered in a bored tone, “I suppose we need to eat eventually. Anthea darling, we’re going to Baker Street.” John heard an assenting sound in the background and the call ended without another word. He grinned anyway. Mycroft had taken the bait and Anthea was always interesting to talk to, when she could be bothered to talk back.

Sherlock was scowling now. “Did you just invite my brother?”

John kept grinning, “Yeah well I invited Greg too.”

Sherlock was angry for only a moment longer before his eyes lit up, “Oh, very clever John, one moment.” Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom again. “I know I already gave you something but after I got you the apron I found these.”

Sherlock thrust a much larger and heavier gift bag at John. Bemused he opened it to spy a motley assortment of holiday ornaments and glitter. Gingerly he tugged it out and a huge smile spread across his face. It was a Christmas jumper! It had a landscape on it made of little decorated Christmas trees as well as small shops bearing flashing signs. The dark green knitted jumper had been sewn with puffs of white felt to mimic snow. A small road led from one to the other and there was a toy car that had a small boot filled to overflowing with tiny wrapped gifts. Sherlock practically tore the apron off of John and forced the jumper over his head, “Turn it on.” demanded the detective.

One of the trees had a button on it. John pressed it. All the trees lit up and the tiny car began to motor around the road, pausing briefly at each small store where a little bit of a carol played for ten seconds before the car zoomed off to the next store. John was laughing with glee, “This is absolutely _brilliant_! Thanks Sherlock.”

“There’s more.” Sherlock nudged the bag again and John realized there was indeed more. He dug in and pulled out a second jumper. It was much larger than the first jumper and Sherlock completely astounded John when the detective pulled it on. Sherlock was wearing a matching jumper. The stores were different and the car as well but otherwise they had on nearly identical Christmas jumpers. Sherlock looked apprehensive. He looked awkward standing there, waiting for John to say something.

John simply beamed. This was the best Christmas ever. He pushed Sherlock’s button and all his trees lit up, the little toy car beginning to journey from one shopping extravaganza to the next, “This is the most incredible gift I’ve ever gotten.”

The worried looked disappeared from Sherlock’s face. “You don’t mind?”

John looked up at Sherlock with surprise, “Mind? I don’t mind, in fact I love this! I absolutely love this.” He did. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so happy at Christmas. He was with his best friend who hated Christmas but here Sherlock was giving him gifts, helping him make elaborate food, inviting company over, and now here he stood right in front of John wearing a flashing singing holiday jumper. John felt a surge inside that was much warmer than friendship and for a moment he almost said it. Instead he settle for, “Today is now my favorite day.”

“Because it’s Christmas?” asked Sherlock.

“No, because of all the nice things you’ve done for me. That makes today my favorite day, this particular day. Thanks Sherlock, you have no idea how much this all means to me.” John was still really moved. Sherlock was a bit silent but hesitantly reached out. John didn’t need to hesitate, this was what he wanted so they hugged each other tight, John taking the opportunity to press his nose to Sherlock’s neck even as Sherlock seemed to bury his face in John’s hair. They held on a second or two longer than friends possibly ought to hug for and let each other go slowly, “We have to check the pots.”

After everything was stirred and safely back on the stove John made Sherlock sit on the sofa. “I’ll be right back.” John went upstairs to retrieve a present from the safest hiding location in the flat. Pulling the soiled laundry off the top of his hamper John dug out a large hard black leather case with heavy white stitching. The hardware was silver steel, the handle sturdy because it needed to be and there was a long wide strap that attached to side handles. John brought it downstairs and set it on the table in front of Sherlock, “Merry Christmas Sherlock.” John sat on his chair.

Sherlock examined the case carefully before touching it, “Durable, weather-resistant. Easily cleaned but not inelegant, it’s made to be used, and frequently.” he looked at John.

“Go on, open it.” urged John. He’d carefully assembled everything for ages now, utilizing his many contacts to get it all.

Sherlock undid the latches and was absolutely silent before breathing out a single word, “John!” Sherlock sounded awed, completely surprised. He turned to look at John and his eyes were blazingly happy, “This is perfect!”

“Yeah?” John sat back, relieved. He hadn’t been sure. “I know it’s not very….”

“Very what?” Sherlock was rooting excitedly through everything, “Sample containers, John! A container of Luminol! How did you know? Oh…look….a finger-print kit! John! Evidence bags, there’s different sizes! _These are medical grade tweezers_! There’s….there’s so many forceps and they’re all different! John! You got the entire range of surgical scalpels! Latex _and_ cotton gloves! _Three_ different types of breath masks? John this is incredible, this is amazing! I love it.” Sherlock hugged John hard, his whole body crushing John to his side, “I absolutely love it.”

John was entirely thrilled. He had been almost completely entirely positive that this was the sort of present Sherlock would be happy with but a little niggle of doubt had plagued him for the longest time. John soaked in the utter happiness on Sherlock’s face as he rummaged through the large case examining everything, familiarizing himself with his new field kit. The lid had several empty pockets and straps on it. John knew Sherlock would add and remove items as he personalized it through use.

John looked forward to watching the process as his best friend did what he did best. Sherlock also hadn’t removed his arm, holding John tight to him while his other hand dug around, the detective muttering to himself as he identified one item after another. John decided not to mention anything in case it embarrassed Sherlock, also, Sherlock smelled fantastic and John would willingly sit there all day long if Sherlock forgot to remove his arm. He was fine, completely fine right where he was. Feeling a tiny bit daring John sagged just the itty bittiest of bitty bits against Sherlock. The taller man’s arm tightened automatically, his hand now firmly secured to John’s upper arm, his long fingers tight and almost possessive. John sat there, a goofy smile on his face as he watched Sherlock touch absolutely everything in the case. If their doorbell hadn’t rung John would have spent the rest of the night with Sherlock’s arm around him. Well, they’d called so they had no one to blame but themselves. It was time to pay attention to their guests and Christmas dinner at Baker Street.

 


	5. Christmas Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have had the loveliest of lovely days and now it's time to enjoy the results of all their hard efforts.

Sherlock had woken up feeling completely voluptuous, his body more relaxed that it had ever been despite the fact that he had a bit of a head-ache from all the wine. There was an enchanting scent in his nose, it had danced in his dreams all night. When he finally woke all the way and found John in his arms he was reluctant to let go but a call of nature was not to be denied. Generously John allowed Sherlock to go in and though the detective knew his flatmate intended to have as shower there was something Sherlock absolutely had to do first.

As soon as he could Sherlock was in the shower, a flannel stuffed into his mouth, his hand moving swiftly over an erection that had been forming since the instant Sherlock realized he was pressed tight to John. Only the difference in their heights kept John from feeling it grow before the doctor had gotten up and left Sherlock trying to figure out why his transport was demanding that he chase after the smaller man. The urgency had spiked alarmingly and it was all he could do to wait until John was safely out of view before he began. It took only a few minutes and left him a bit shaky but relieved.

After that Sherlock stayed as close to John as he could under the guise of cooking. He couldn’t stop looking at him. John’s hair was charmingly tousled and Sherlock wanted to run his fingers through it. Instead he managed to make the most of the small kitchen to keep their bodies close enough so that their bums nearly grazed past each the other as John worked at the counter and Sherlock worked on the table. The more time that went by, the more Sherlock felt the urge to be close to John, and then closer still.

John loved his gifts, the jumper was surprisingly comfortable, and when the hugging happened Sherlock couldn’t restrain himself. He’d hugged back; indulging in the scent of John’s hair, rubbing his cheek against the doctor’s head so a bit of John was on him. He felt John’s nose against the skin of his neck, a tiny puff of air from John’s lips and he almost did it, he almost tilted John’s head back so he could kiss him. _Oh god_! What was he thinking? This was John! _John_ his best friend and flatmate, he couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

John gave him the most marvelous gift he’d ever received apart from his violin and microscope. The case was dream come true, discrete, unassuming, and filled with surprises. It was just like John, so simple on the outside, so intriguing on the inside. Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He hugged John again. A little daringly Sherlock didn’t let go. John didn’t protest and a shiver of shock tingled through Sherlock. John had protested several times that he wasn’t gay but what entirely straight man would allow his male friend to keep holding him like this? Sherlock nearly gasped when he felt John move toward him, but just a touch. He couldn’t help himself, his hands cinched John tighter still and again John made no protest. Sherlock was ecstatic. John smelled delicious, if he could Sherlock would have sat there all night long holding John. The bell rang and both of them frowned then sighed at the same time.

It was Lestrade, “Hello Greg.” Sherlock could hear John lead the DI up to their flat, “Dinner is nearly ready, we called a couple of other people.”

Sherlock was arranging cookies on a plate when Lestrade came into the kitchen on the heels of John who went to the counter to continue finishing a salad he had been building. The silver-haired man looked over the kitchen in surprise. He handed a small bag to John, “You two made all of this?”

“Yeah, it’s been a lot of fun actually.” said John, slicing deftly. Sherlock admired the steadiness of John’s hands in moments like this, moments when he wasn’t tired and forgot his shoulder was damaged. In those instances Sherlock caught glimmers of what John must have been like as a surgeon, the precision he must have had, the focus he must have needed to perform his life-saving miracles while surrounded by the madness of war. Before he could stop himself Sherlock’s gaze wandered all over John. Even in his ridiculous jumper the doctor was quite dashing, his body fit and strong, deceptively small and unobtrusively lethal. A shiver took him even though he felt overly warm. John paused for a moment and opened the bag, “What’s this?” He pulled out a small toy on a string. It looked like a reptile of some sort sitting on some kind of armament.

“A missile-toad.” said Lestrade.

John laughed and made Sherlock hang it in the entryway to the kitchen.

“How’d you get Sherlock into a Christmas jumper?” Lestrade was eyeing their jumpers with a small smile.

“He gave them to me; they’re pretty fantastic aren’t they?” John’s obvious happiness put a pin in any smart remark that Lestrade might have been tempted to make. “Sneak one of those cookies before dinner, Sherlock did an amazing job with them.”

Whatever Lestrade thought of the cookies was lost to the sound of the doorbell, “My turn.” said Sherlock. He clattered downstairs. Molly was standing there looking a bit awkward in her enormous coat and scarf. Under her arm was a soft pet carrier containing the much cared for Toby, a neutered male of undetermined origin that was made up of what seemed like every type of cat there was. His face was squashed but his body long and narrow, the hair on his tail long but on his body it was short. He had one blue eye and one green one and a kitten-hood accident had left him minus one fang so he had a bit of a rakish look to him. That look was enhanced by the long black tufts on the points of his ears that gave him an even more alien appearance but not as much as the finger-length patch of hair that grew bizarrely out of the center of his head like a fuzzy crown. His pelt was a motley of colors but he pulled off his disparate appearance with aplomb as if other cats hadn’t troubled themselves enough to be as spectacularly unique as he was. Sherlock rather liked Toby who was a cat with the right attitude. “Hello Molly.”

She was staring at his jumper, “ _Oh_. Hello Sherlock…Mer…Merry Christmas.”

Sherlock stepped aside to let her in and she eyed his jumper on the way by, “John and I both have one. It’s just for dinner.”

“Oh.” she seemed to struggle for a moment, “It’s very lovely. The green suits you.”

The doorbell rang again. Sherlock turned with a small apologetic nod to Molly first, “Mycroft. Anthea.”

Mycroft stood in the doorway and looked at Sherlock with something akin to surprise. “Brother.”

“Well come in, you’re letting all the warmth out.” Anthea pushed past Mycroft, her short dress encouraging her to be a little more impatient than she might normally have been. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, “Head right up.”

“Doctor Hooper.” purred Anthea, “What a _lovely_ surprise.”

“Anthea.” said Molly. Sherlock’s ears pricked. They knew one another and for once the nervous tremor in Molly’s voice was gone. “I’m sorry I’ve been busy…”

“Oh I know.” Anthea’s voice was practically predatory but when Sherlock turned to look Molly was anything but intimidated. If anything the normally trembling pathologist seemed to exude a strange sort of confidence. Anthea shrugged out of her long coat to reveal one of her many extremely well-fitted and distracting dresses. She thrust the coat at Sherlock without looking and he hung it on a coat-hook. Molly shrugged out of her big coat almost shyly and Sherlock relieved her of it. She was wearing an oddly clashing shirt and jumper combination. Molly was a busy woman and the dead never complained. She tended to dress in a hurry with the first thing that came to hand. Anthea seemed to appreciate the quirkiness of the woman in front of her, “After you Doctor Hooper.” Anthea extended an elegant hand toward the stairs. Molly simply climbed up to the flat but Anthea managed to make it seem as if she were prowling after the other woman. Sherlock decided that she was and mentally shrugged.

“I see domesticity agrees with you brother.” There was a great deal of smirk in Mycroft’s words so Sherlock ignored him and went to the flat, leaving Mycroft to hang his own coat and find his own way up the stairs.

Sherlock didn’t fail to catch the look on Lestrade’s face when Mycroft entered the room and it confirmed everything he’d suspected. They were attracted to one another and once again Sherlock despaired of Lestrade’s tastes but at least this would distract Mycroft from interfering with Sherlock’s life. Mycroft gave John a small bag that contained two bottles of wine. When the turkey came out of the oven everyone congratulated them on a job well done. It was perfectly browned and looked as delicious as it smelled.

Dinner was long and leisurely, mostly conducted in the living-room when they realized they didn’t have enough chairs for everyone and even if they did there wasn’t enough room at their small kitchen table. Sherlock squeezed onto the sofa with John and Molly while Anthea sat in John’s chair next to the pathologist. Sherlock noted that Anthea kept sneaking Toby bits of turkey when Molly was distracted. Toby gobbled each tidbit up and gave no clue to his owner that he was being successfully bribed. Mycroft sat on a kitchen chair near the fireplace but also next to Lestrade who was in Sherlock’s chair. The coffee table was filled with napkins and wine glasses, all the conversations easy and natural as they dined. Since they had a buffet more or less on the go everyone just got up and fetched back a bit more of whatever they were enjoying the most. John dug out a couple more bottles of wine from their small collection and the party grew merrier.

Since they were pressed so tight Sherlock had to keep his arm on the back of the sofa but John just fit himself neatly beside him, chatting around to everyone in between bites. Laughter dominated the conversation as everyone was reminded of one fumble after another until everyone was sniggering, even Anthea who told a couple of stories that had Mycroft squirming but Lestrade laughing heartily. Sherlock didn’t mind when for a long time Mycroft and Greg spoke only to each other as did Anthea and Molly, leaving John all to him which was absolutely perfect. They chatted happily with one another, complimenting each other on the success of their various culinary attempts.

It stayed happy and pleasant, everyone even pitching in to package up all the leftovers. Mrs. Hudson had paper plates in her pantry so Sherlock and John assembled several meals to freeze for another day. They sent more than one serving back with everyone as well as a selection of desserts. Since Lestrade and Molly had both taken cabs over Mycroft very helpfully offered to get an extra driver to come and pick the DI up and bring him home, that it happened to be in the same direction that Mycroft lived in was surely coincidence, as was the fact that Molly’s home was in the opposite direction also conveniently for Anthea who accompanied her.

It was strangely satisfying to clean up with John. They collected up dirty plates and glasses, piled up the pots and pans from cooking and with a glass of wine each proceeded to wash up. It took a bit but they were both in a good mood, chattering easily with one another about how things had gone and which dishes they thought they might try again and what ideas they had for next Christmas. Sherlock’s heart filled with a warm soothing feeling as John made plans for them, agreeing to everything John suggested, happy to know his friend felt they should continue sharing days like this. Sherlock had gone through more than one tea towel by the time the last pot was cleaned and dried. The kitchen looked strangely empty now but it was good kind of emptiness. When the only thing left was their glasses Sherlock opened their last bottle of wine and poured, “Let’s watch another episode.” he coaxed.

John nodded, “I’m going to get into my pajamas first though.”

“Good idea John.” Sherlock liked it very much when John reached over to slowly press the button on Sherlock’s jumper, shutting the lights and music off at long last. Sherlock realized he’d tuned it out and hadn’t minded wearing it even once all night. “I’ll go change too.” Feeling a bit daring again Sherlock gripped the hem of his jumper, stretching his body out as he pulled it over his head. He wasn’t positive but he thought he heard John’s appreciative inhalation when his ribs flared out and his abdomen extended, flat and hard.

They went to their separate rooms. Sherlock rummaged through his pajamas feverishly. He didn’t want to be foolish looking but surely he had _something_ that was a tiny bit inviting without being obvious. Finally he came across a pair of cotton bottoms that matched a very soft thin cotton top. They were a dark gray and Sherlock knew their simplicity would suit him very well. He liked the way it clung to his body and with only a little deliberation decided to not wear pants. Forgoing his usual robe and slippers Sherlock went out to the sofa and got the next episode ready to go. He was just bringing the wine and glasses out from the kitchen when John came back. Sherlock saw John was wearing tartan patterned bottoms and a warm long-sleeve shirt. Sherlock took a minute to start the fire so John wouldn’t get chilled. Sherlock didn’t miss the fact that John sat on the sofa instead of his chair. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up so Sherlock sat himself next to the doctor.

Like the entire day it was just marvelous. John giggled and oohed in equal measure. Sherlock loved how involved John became, he was able to lose himself completely in a story, feeling for the characters and nudging Sherlock with his elbow when he got excited about something. The best was when John guessed something correctly, then he would pat Sherlock’s thigh without thinking, watching the show avidly. Casually Sherlock leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table, allowing his arm to stretch out over the back of the sofa. John was laughing merrily at some of the banter, leaning forward to top up their glasses before handing Sherlock his and leaning back as well. John put his feet up on the table, idly commenting, “Look how much longer your feet are than mine.”

“Well at least your big toe is normally proportioned. Mine looks like they’re trying to be extra feet.” complained Sherlock. This made John giggle uncontrollably _but then John put his bare foot on top of Sherlock’s to compare their toes_! “God your feet are warm. How are you so warm? You don’t have a spare ounce on you.”

“Are you cold?” Sherlock reached back and fetched up their lap blanket. He dropped it onto John’s lap so that the doctor could cover himself how he pleased.

John shook it out and flung it over his lap, tossing part of it over Sherlock’s lap as well, “I’m going to siphon off some of your body heat. You’re not using it and I’m feeling the cold.”

John’s bad shoulder was right under Sherlock’s arm, “Your shoulder is cold? Here.” Bravely Sherlock slid his arm down, embracing John as he shifted over a few inches until their torsos were side by side. “Better?” Sherlock held his breath. This was far more than friends would probably do for one another but he couldn’t help but try.

“ _So_ much better, you’re like a radiator.” exclaimed John who pressed closer still, tugging Sherlock’s hand over his far shoulder like he was a shawl. Sherlock didn’t mind a bit and wondered if he could sneakily kiss John’s head somehow. For now he indulged in a discrete inhale of John’s delectable scent, grateful that the lap-blanket would give him a tiny bit of privacy if his transport decided to misbehave. “Look, I knew it, a hacker.” John’s hand was under the blanket but he still patted Sherlock’s thigh as part of his self-congratulations. Sherlock had to sip some wine to try and distract himself. John kept guessing things and getting them right, his small hand patting Sherlock’s thigh with greater frequency until part-way through their second episode John stopped removing his hand and just left it on Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock took one more sip of wine to brace himself then with extreme extra smooth casualness allowed the tips of his fingers to trace an aimless pattern over John’s shoulder as if he were lost in the show and didn’t realize what he was doing. For several minutes nothing happened but then Sherlock nearly groaned when John’s fingers twitched the smallest bit before beginning their own innocent flex and wander. Sherlock shifted a bit, adjusting his arm so he was holding John outright and John simply relaxed against him, his hand stroking with greater firmness, not wandering far but still making a large portion of Sherlock’s upper leg extremely happy. They stayed that way until the end of the episode when John apologetically said, “I have to use the loo.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and let John rise, watching him walk away and admired the shape of John’s behind and thighs and sighed. He’d really been enjoying that but there was no way it would continue now that the moment had been interrupted. He topped up their glasses and brought the empty bottle to the kitchen. John was just coming back so Sherlock took his turn, washing up carefully afterward before going back out front. John had put a couple of logs on the fire and was waiting for Sherlock on the sofa with a warm smile, “Ready?”

“Of course John.” Sherlock sat back down and mourned the closeness they had shared for only a moment before John threw the end of the blanket back over his lap and just shifted over so they were pressed tight once more. Swallowing hard Sherlock tentatively put his arm over John’s shoulder and the soldier simply settled back, resting his head on Sherlock’s bicep and hitting play with the remote. Sherlock smiled to himself. This was absolutely the best thing that had ever happened to him. John got right back into the show, shouting out his guesses and laughing when he got them wrong. When he got one right though he reached over and patted Sherlock’s thigh. John left his hand there again. Sherlock exhaled raggedly. He had to try, he had to. Gingerly he let his fingers beginning wandering over John’s shoulder again and after a few breathless moments Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut as he felt John’s fingers begin to move in return.

Oh god the tension was driving him mad in the sweetest way. Alcohol coursed through his brain and made him bold. Sherlock let his hand slide deliberately up and down John’s arm and felt the smaller man tense. Sherlock nearly stopped but John’s hand on his thigh pressed down and very slowly drew down to Sherlock’s knee. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him. Inhaling carefully Sherlock continued to let his hand gently caress John’s upper arm. It was all going very well until Sherlock’s fingers fumbled a bit and he ended up dumping the last of his wine down his front, “Shit!” Sherlock never swore but he did then. Leaping up he strode quickly to the kitchen to mop at it with the dishcloth.

John called from the living room, “I’m going to clean this off the carpet, just rinse your things off in the sink there before the wine stains it.” Sherlock stripped off his pajamas and shoved them under a cold tap, the red wine slowly disappearing as he scrubbed the fabric together. He rinsed off the dishcloth and quickly wiped down his chest and belly before shutting the tap off and wringing everything out. He’d need to get to the bedroom somehow, he was completely starkers! “Oh!” John was at the entrance to the kitchen right beneath the novelty toy Lestrade had brought. He was staring at Sherlock’s behind, his eyes unblinking, “I’m….sorry….you…um….I should…robe…oh my god I just…”

Sherlock flushed at first, not expecting to be caught naked in the kitchen by John no matter how much wine he’d had. The tea towel was in the sink with his wet clothes, there was nothing to hide behind. Keeping his back to John was the best he could do to shield his modesty. Glancing over his shoulder Sherlock really looked at his reaction. John’s eyes were wandering over Sherlock in a fashion that could only be termed as hungry. His lips were parted and his eyes were dilated. The clue that caused Sherlock to finally move though was the very distinctive and more obvious by the moment bulge in John’s pants that made Sherlock’s entire body react instinctively. In only a few short steps Sherlock was directly in front of the doctor. Giving in to the impulse that had dogged him all day Sherlock tipped John’s head back with his fingers and pressed their mouths together. There was only a moment of shocked hesitation before one of John’s arms came up to grip at Sherlock’s curls, the other wrapping low around Sherlock’s waist to hold him tight. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders, his other hand splayed over the back of John’s head to keep him exactly in place so Sherlock could savor their first kiss for as long as possible. Lights twinkled all around them and everything felt like magic.

 


	6. Unwrapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas dinner and presents have all led to an unexpected but not unwelcome development.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSWF - I'm literally ending with a bang

If John had been charmed with Sherlock before tonight he was now utterly and completely besotted with the man. Sherlock was cordial with everyone, even Mycroft! He engaged in conversation pleasantly, made humorous comments pertaining to the stories of others, and paid attention to everyone, but especially to John. He was over the moon with delight. It was all John could do not to stare outright at Sherlock with little hearts blooming around his head like some kind of cartoon character because even with everyone around them John had never felt more _with_ Sherlock than he did then. This was their home and their guests who were eating the dinner they had made together while they wore matching jumpers. John smiled up at Sherlock as often as he could, making do with short glances instead of long drawn-out gazes.

Sherlock didn’t even complain when Lestrade accidentally dropped icing onto the arm of his chair. The DI didn’t notice because of his conversation with Mycroft so Sherlock had just reached over with a napkin, wiped it off quickly before Lestrade got it on himself, and went back to visiting with everyone else. Sherlock was being a considerate host. John’s heart was so full, he could barely contain the words he wanted to say so desperately but he did. Instead he savored the tight squeeze of their bodies next to each other, how Sherlock’s arm nearly burned across his shoulders as the detective tried to fit himself into too small a space.

The mayhem in the kitchen after the meal was done was amusing, at least to John. Everyone had put the pots of leftovers on the kitchen table and with devastating efficiency afforded by having so many bureaucrats in a single space they had organized the entire redistribution process. The amount of skill at the table was almost beyond belief. Anthea and Molly wielded their kitchen knives with strangely different competence, Molly of course because she spent part of everyday dissecting things but then in her own way, so did Anthea. The remains of the turkey were stripped clean and left in a neat pile for disposal, everything neatly sliced and ready to go. John vaguely noticed that people were flirting with one another but he was distracted with Sherlock saying things like, “ _John where do we keep the food wrap_?” or “ _John, do you think Mrs. Hudson would mind if we borrowed some things, we can replace them tomorrow._ ” Every time Sherlock said _we_ John’s heart filled a little more and now he was fit to burst.

It wasn’t until they were saying goodnight to everyone that John finally snapped out of his haze enough to take in more than a distant impression of other people. Anthea was very obviously hitting on Molly. John’s jaw nearly dropped when he saw a challenging look on Molly’s face, _Molly_! Molly was being crowded toward the door by Anthea who was moving in a way that might have made John’s mouth dry had he any interest in her. He didn’t but when he saw her move _like that_ and saw how Molly was also inviting Anthea along wordlessly John realized that Anthea was _not_ in fact asexual as he’d assumed. She was very clearly hot-blooded when it came to someone she fancied and she _really_ fancied Doctor Hooper. Chasing that thought was the thunderbolt realization that if _Anthea_ wasn’t then it was now extremely possible that _Sherlock_ wasn’t! _What if Sherlock was like Anthea_? What if he needed the right kind of person to make him access the sweatier parts of his character?

No, John couldn’t rush to judgement, especially when he knew he was doubly impaired first by his own feelings and also by alcohol of which he’d had perhaps too much. He knew he could be wildly misinterpreting things, his own hopeful bias’ possibly coloring the facts incorrectly. Sherlock was his friend. John couldn’t jeopardize that, not even for what could be the most fantastic fantasy sex John could dream up because _look_ at Sherlock’s ass…no…NO… _don’t look at Sherlock’s ass_. John was firm with himself. He was saying goodnight to Greg or trying to. The DI was too busy with Mycroft, their hints and mutual sallies becoming less and less subtle until Sherlock practically shoved them out into the street. Anthea and Molly left as well, Toby’s carrier slung easily over Anthea’s elegant shoulder, her hand now possessively on the back of Molly’s neck as she escorted the slim doctor to their waiting town car.

Sherlock went upstairs first after locking the door. John had to bite his lip because now Sherlock’s ass was at eye level and he could not stop his eyes from roaming. What must it feel like? It was so firm and shaped exactly right for John’s hands, and he’d always had a kink for going down on people and _stop it_! Stop…this was _Sherlock_. Even if Sherlock was being warmer and kinder than usual it was Christmas and he had been making a special effort to be nice. John couldn’t ruin that by crassly hitting on him like some hormonal teen! _God he just wanted to grab two big handfuls of that_ …no… _stop it_. John bit his lip again and sighed with relief when they got back to the kitchen, Sherlock’s behind unmolested.

Sherlock was happy while they cleaned up. John noted that all the kitchen linen was soiled when he pulled out the last dishcloth, John bundled them up and dumped them into the laundry hamper; he’d need to wash tomorrow. John realized how easy it was to do these small things with Sherlock, they had a pace and rhythm to how they lived their lives and it seemed no time at all before everything was wiped down and cleared away. John didn’t want the evening to be over and it seemed Sherlock didn’t either.

When they settled in to watch and Sherlock moved to keep John’s shoulder warm John couldn’t think. He knew Sherlock didn’t see what they were doing as being unduly intimate and his shoulder had begun to ache. Sherlock was extremely warm and all the pain ebbed away almost immediately. John considered Sherlock. For him it was probably perfectly logical. Sherlock’s perceptions were somewhat skewed by his inability to admit social convention applied to him as well as everyone else and very often invaded John’s personal space. John sat there and felt silently jubilant at the current invasion because it was getting better. Sherlock was a naturally fiddly person and sitting in front of the telly all night meant some part of him needed to be doing something. When his fingers began to play over John’s shoulder it took everything in him not to collapse against Sherlock like a contented cat. Sherlock smelled so good too, his body was hard and so warm that John felt like they were melting together. When Sherlock failed to react the first time John patted his thigh John grew bold and made the gesture as many times as he could arrange. He’d seen the series once before but in bits as time allowed and he wasn’t good at recalling details like Sherlock was so his guesses were wrong more often than not but still frequent enough that John got to feel Sherlock’s leg over and over again. It was totally a cheap move and John knew it but he was a weak man and _bloody hell Sherlock’s thigh was so firm_. John had to subdue a growl of appreciation because he just wanted to run his fingers over every inch of Sherlock’s long and unfairly shapely legs.

He needed to get up and now.

The end of the episode signaled an opportunity for John to escape to the bathroom. Running an ice-cold tap John splashed water on his face to calm himself down. He was being ridiculous. He’d touched Sherlock’s thigh, his thigh. Not his…anything else….just his thigh. He shouldn’t be having symptoms like a racing heart, or breathlessness, or and John verified this in the mirror, faintly flushed cheeks. Thank goodness the lights out front were dim. Sherlock shouldn’t be able to tell that John was developing the beginnings of a sex blush.

When he went out he busied himself by stoking the fire. He wanted to resume their previous warm position but wasn’t sure Sherlock would be willing so he made himself comfortable in the exact same spot and willed Sherlock to sit back beside him instead of taking his own seat alone. Sherlock came right back and without thinking it through John just snuggled close once more. Sherlock’s arm settled onto his shoulder gently and John decided to take things a tiny bit further, boldly resting his head on Sherlock’s arm and was extremely gratified when Sherlock made no objection. Greedily John took the first opportunity that came his way to put his hand back on Sherlock’s thigh and then he left it there, following Sherlock’s lead with caution.

John had to force himself to breath normally when Sherlock’s idle caresses became deliberate. Oh god was Sherlock _hitting_ on him? It felt like he was but John wasn’t positive. If this had been anyone else John would have been sure but he couldn’t risk it. Well…he could risk one thing. John wanted to run his hand up and up the inside of Sherlock’s thigh to feel him but instead he forced his hand downward. He couldn’t do more than that. He was already finding it difficult to control himself.

So was Sherlock. The startled curse on his lips was as surprising as watching the tall man stride away quickly. John glanced down. Wine was soaking into the carpet. Grabbing napkins he dabbed it up before it became part of the pattern, “I’m going to clean this off the carpet, just rinse your things off in the sink there before the wine stains it.” John used up all the paper napkins left, throwing them in the small paper bin near the desk. Sherlock was still in the kitchen so John went to check on him. He made it as far as the entrance before his legs stopped working.

Sherlock was naked.

Sherlock was completely naked.

Sherlock’s naked bum was right there in the bright light of the kitchen and it was even more glorious than he could have imagined. It was muscular, firm, masculine but plush, not hairy but blessed with peach fuzz that John couldn’t wait to feel. _No_ …this…. _Sherlock wasn’t naked to flirt with him he’d just spilled wine on his clothes_. John needed to drag his gaze away from Sherlock’s mouth-watering ass but all that accomplished was to encourage his gaze to wander all over the rest of Sherlock and suddenly John was ravenous. He wanted to lick and touch every fucking inch of the alabaster god who was now looking over his shoulder like the shyest of maidens. John couldn’t stop his body from reacting. Sherlock was raw beauty, a vision of temptation. John stammered words. He had no idea what he was saying, they just tumbled out. Every drop of blood in his brain had taken a collective plunge toward his cock rendering John incapable of rational speech.

John was stunned when Sherlock simply uncoiled from in front of the kitchen sink, strode over naked and proud, his cock nested in a thatch of black curls, and bloody well kissed him! John’s entire body went rigid with shock. Had he passed out? Was this a dream? A fantasy? Deciding it didn’t matter John threw himself into the kiss with eagerness.

Sherlock’s mouth was sour with wine but that soon faded as their lips parted and their tongues swirled together. Sherlock was holding him like he never wanted to let go and John was helpless to resist, he needed to touch, to deepen the kiss further. The taller man’s raven curls were like silk between John’s fingers and Sherlock’s skin was like warm satin. John soon found his body pressed hard against the door frame, one of Sherlock’s legs pushing between his thighs, the tall man bending down just a bit so their mouths could remain together.

Sherlock’s hands untangled themselves and began to wander. John decided this was a good idea and allowed his fingers to trace gratefully over the surface of Sherlock’s back, feeling the muscle and bone beneath his tender skin, shivering as Sherlock’s breath caught over and over again, their kiss remaining unbroken. John couldn’t stop his palms from sliding downward and with a Sherlock-muffled groan John filled his hands with the taut firm luscious flesh of Sherlock’s bottom. It was almost impossibly perfect, warm, pliant, generous. Sherlock’s hips bucked a bit and his hands dropped down to John’s behind as well, his long fingers splaying out and Sherlock gently squeezed.

John yelped, jerking away from Sherlock in pained surprise which only served to slam the back of his head against the wood behind him. He’d forgotten about the enormous bruise on his behind from skating. Sherlock had unintentionally dug the tips of his fingers right into it. “John are you alright?” Sherlock sounded almost frightened, pulling John gently away from the frame and running his fingers gently over John’s head to check for damage, “You’re hurt.”

“We’re never going skating again!” John rubbed his bum regretfully. The sting had already faded but the moment was irretrievably broken or so he thought. Sherlock took him by the shoulders and turned John to the wall. Before he could say anything Sherlock had tugged down John’s pajamas and pants to inspect the bruise, crouching behind John to do so, “Sherlock!”

“The bruise is deep but it should be alright. I didn’t break the skin or disturb the scratches that are healed over.” Sherlock’s voice was deep and husky. John inhaled sharply when he felt Sherlock’s soft lips press gently against him. Sherlock was kissing his bruise! How had this happened? John clung to the frame. His knees were weak and his head was spinning. Sherlock stood slowly, tugging John’s pants up as he went. Sherlock leaned in and rubbed his cheek against John’s hair, turning his head to breathe softly on John’s ear before whispering, “I would like more than just kisses John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft, not exactly pleading but definitely letting John know that the taller man was very sincere but willing to let John ultimately decide.

There was no decision to make, only a request to grant. John twisted around in Sherlock’s arms and kissed him deeply, pressing his body as close to Sherlock as he could. Sherlock moaned softly, his long arms snaking around John to hold him tight. Sherlock shivered and John realized he was standing naked right out in the open and it wasn’t exactly warm in the room, “Let’s get you someplace warmer.”

“Your bed?” asked Sherlock, caressing John’s cheek with his hand, “That’s what I want John, if you want it too.” There was nothing to say. John took Sherlock’s hand, abandoning everything in the front after switching off the telly on their way by and hurried up to John’s room. John felt Sherlock’s free hand on his hip as they dashed up. As soon as they were through the door John wrapped Sherlock back in his arms and kissed him as hard as he could. Sherlock jerked down the waist of John’s pajamas while the doctor tore his top over his head, stepping out of his pants as quickly as he could to press his naked body directly against Sherlock’s and John felt the tall man simply tremble all over, a soft delighted sigh escaping his mouth before Sherlock was kissing John like he wanted to eat him alive, “Bed John.”

They tumbled under the covers, hands pawing and groping as they covered themselves, sliding against each other as their mouths moved together over and over again. John wanted so many things; he didn’t know where to begin. He was caught up with Sherlock in an orgy of indulgence as they touched one another in as many places as they could reach. John moaned with Sherlock when he reached down to stroke the detective’s cock. Sherlock was already almost fully erect and it took only a few moments before he was thrusting raggedly into the circle of John’s fingers, “I want to make you feel so good.” sighed John, “I want you to feel _amazing_.”

Sherlock’s kiss was almost brutal. He bit at John’s bottom lip before kissing him deeply, “I need you inside me John. I need you as close to me as you can get, as close as we can possibly be.” Making love to Sherlock was nothing like making love to a woman. He was demanding, direct, vocal and precise. His body was lean and hard, missing the soft curves that used to enthrall John so often. John loved it. Sherlock had clearly never had sex before but he knew what he liked when John did it. His responses were addictively genuine; the looks of astonished delight on his face were burning into John’s mind. Sherlock was incredibly sensitive and the sounds he made to signal his enjoyment were as delicious as the way his body flushed and shook as John sated himself by tasting Sherlock everywhere just as he’d dreamed of doing. Sherlock was impatient and as much as John wanted to savor every moment he was impatient too.

Sherlock found John’s lube but threw the condoms across the room petulantly, “I won’t have anything between us.” he said in a hard voice. John didn’t argue and Sherlock kissed him. It felt urgent and almost desperate, “I need you _in_ me John. I need you to be a part of me somehow.”

John kissed him back, pressing Sherlock back onto the pillows, “Anything you want Sherlock, anything at all.” John wasn’t going to fight this. He hadn’t had sex in so long his last two screens had been a pointless formality in keeping with John’s regular habits. Sherlock was almost aggravatingly healthy, escaping all sorts of nasty problems from when he’d been a drug addict, as well as from his many experiments for the Work. John and Mycroft both monitored his health and John knew his flatmate was clean. He had no issue with forgoing condoms.

Sherlock had clearly read up on sex, citing a rather impressive list of things he wanted John to do to him. John silenced him with a kiss and began with his own list. Sucking a love bite high on Sherlock’s neck was first, followed by the lavish attention spent on Sherlock’s chest, all of which was pleasingly sensitive. John thought he’d be intimidated by Sherlock’s erection but by the time he got there he was as heated as his lover and didn’t care that he hadn’t ever done something like this before. He sucked Sherlock’s cock languorously while his well slicked fingers began to prepare the man to receive him. It was long and narrower than John’s, the head delicately flared, Sherlock’s foreskin tender and delightful to feel. John made sure to roll Sherlock’s testicles and to spend some time toying with the sensitive flesh behind them as his fingers began to work inside.

Sherlock was hot, the tight squeeze of his flesh around John’s fingers almost painful. John kissed the inside of his thighs and stroked his free hand over Sherlock’s skin everywhere he could reach until he relaxed. John knew he should wait a bit longer but as soon as he could he began with the second finger. Sherlock was moaning and twisting a bit, his legs spread wide as he lay on his stomach. John was liberal with the lube, wanting to make sure Sherlock enjoyed his first time as much as possible. He almost stopped after two but with a deep steadying sigh began with a third finger. Sherlock deserved to be pampered as much as possible even if he was writhing a bit now and beginning to demand that John move things along. John’s patience finally ran out.

He slicked himself heavily. Sherlock turned over, “I want to see you.” he said firmly. John stifled his protest. It would be easier if Sherlock had gotten on his hands and knees but if this was what he wanted then that’s what he would get. Sherlock’s face was as flushed as John’s his nose and cheeks red with passion, his eyes heavy with desire, “John.”

Lust soared to uncontrollable levels. He folded Sherlock’s legs up easily, shoving a pillow under his hips so he was presented gorgeously. It was the sexiest thing John had ever seen and the surge of lust peaked even higher. His vision blurred for a second and he felt almost drunk with it. With a deep groan John pushed inside. He tried to go slow but his body wasn’t listening. Sherlock’s moan was resonant, the vibration of the low tones making all the hair on John’s body tingle. Before John knew it he was fully seated and pulling back. Sherlock’s hands were on his own knees, keeping his legs out of the way so he could look down wide-eyed at John pushing directly back inside. His head fell back onto the pillow, another long moan making John moan with him, “I’ve never felt anything like this.” gasped John.

Sherlock was so tight inside, he felt so different than anything John had ever experienced. John utilized everything he knew medically about the human body angling a bit until he could push gingerly toward Sherlock’s prostate. Sherlock’s moan climbed the registers and suddenly John’s body was being held tight by Sherlock’s long legs, his feet locked together above John’s hips, “Harder.” he growled.

John was more than happy to comply. Any fleeting thought he had about being gentle evaporated as he sank himself into the sweet tightness that waited for him. Sherlock’s cock began to sway a bit as John began a swift deep rhythm that had Sherlock writhing once more, his hips twisting in counter-point to John’s as they chased their orgasm together. Sherlock was bucking harder now so John rolled them over, letting the tall man take control. It was glorious.

Sherlock was completely uninhibited. He braced his hands on John’s chest, setting his knees wide apart and began to ride John aggressively. His body gleamed with sweat, the flush on his face spreading across his upper body. Some of his curls were plastered to his forehead and his eyes were closed, his head hanging back as he lost himself in pure pleasure. John had never felt so gratified, he loved seeing Sherlock like this. When John began to caress Sherlock all the sweet gasps he wrung out of the man went straight to John’s cock. Bracing his feet he began to thrust up. Sherlock sat straight up, his torso undulating in response to the pleasure he was feeling. His hips never ceased moving, rolling and swirling, working John’s cock inside him as Sherlock wanted.

Sherlock was nearly crooning encouragement for John to drive harder. The bed was rocking dangerously as their bodies met with increased savagery.  John felt his orgasm build and grow. He licked the palm of his hand and reached for Sherlock cock, “I want you to come.”

“John!” shouted Sherlock. Suddenly Sherlock stopped moving except for the twisting of his hips. John’s hand stroked him swiftly and Sherlock began to grunt out little oh’s of pleasure. His body tightened around John and he was almost quivering inside. John groaned. He wasn’t going to last.

This was all too new, he was too overwhelmed with everything, Sherlock was too beautiful, his body too pleasurable, it was too late, “Sherlock!” Sherlock threw his head back and choked out a series garbled vowels. His cock throbbed in John’s hand just as his insides seemed to flutter and grip John in a pulsing rhythm that milked the orgasm right out of him. John wasn’t sure if he shouted, the entire world was filled with nothing but one massive throb of delight after another.

Sherlock’s whole body went limp and he slid forward, splaying over John to pant and sweat some more. John struggled to catch his breath and to regain control of his body. His orgasm had produced a lovely lingering afterglow, a sweet sharp delightful feeling as his body nearly hummed with contentment. Sherlock nuzzled John’s shoulder, turning his head so his mouth was right by John’s ear. John could barely keep his eyes open but he didn’t want to miss a moment of anything. Sherlock’s lips grazed John’s earlobe tenderly and he was silent for a moment, “I love you John.”

John’s eyes closed. Today was the best day of his life, a day so incredible it made up for all the grim days that preceded it. He managed to get his arms around Sherlock, kissing the sweat-soaked hair at his brow and finally said the words he’d been holding inside for so long, “I love you Sherlock.”

“I want us to be together forever.” Sherlock’s voice was small and soft.

John kissed him again, “That would make me very happy. Let’s do that.”

They lay like that for a long time but eventually Sherlock shifted to John’s side. He knew he should get Sherlock cleaned up but the bed was too comfortable and he like the smell of their bodies together. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his breathing growing slow and steady. His head was on John’s arm and his arm was draped over John’s stomach. Deciding they could wash in the morning John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead one last time. This was the best Christmas John had ever had and he looked forward to all the other best days ever they would have. John knew everything was different now, better. He loved Sherlock and Sherlock loved him and they were going to be together forever. What better gift could he have received? Deeply contented John slept.


End file.
